Plugged In

 

There is a point when you consult your internet browsing history and are frankly horrified at how plugged in one has become.  More and more of one's day has been wasted on an exhausting examination of breaking news, movies, and that latest third series of episodes of drama you have become strangely addicted to, interspersed with podcasts, social media posting, and viewing endless youtube videos on increasingly obscure topics.  

That this addiction is toxic is apparent from the rabbit holes one goes down. Overall, it is a little depressing that 86% of adults spend an average of 3 hours and 37 mins online each day (Ofcom figures).  But this level of addiction is to be expected as youtube's sophisticated technology recommends videos based on your viewing history to entice you to keep watching.  Internet browsing has definitely had a negative impact on my sleep.  

I actually never thought about sleep at all until I passed sixty.  Then, instead of blissful sleep, there came various stages of sleeplessness.  The first was not being able to get to sleep and endless hours tossing and turning to try and find the mystical perfect position that might bring oblivion.  The second was not only difficulty in getting to sleep but also waking up in the early hours of the morning and having a full breakfast at 3 or 4 am.  Usually, after toast and a full pot of tea, I would be able to fall back into bed and sleep.  Then, a different stage was reached where I did not sleep the whole night!  The day after this sleepless night I dragged myself around as if I had a mortal wound allowing my lifeblood to gradually drain away. The next night in recovery mode I would sleep the sleep of the just, deep, long, and life-affirming.  I foolishly thought this sleeplessness business had reached its worse stage however a new terrifying stage awaited me.  

Not only did I not sleep the entire night but even the following night.  After two sleepless nights in a row, a strange change in my mental state occurred.  I began to fear twilight, that signal of the coming night.  Now sleeplessness was not just a torment during the night but the tail end of the day was filled with dread at the forthcoming night!  The horrid thing about sleeplessness is the places one's mind goes to when you are sleep deprived.  Simply everything takes on a dark hue like the night.  The thoughts become darker, the future more dire and the very worst of memories resurrect themselves repeatedly. As William Shakespeare so eloquently put it,

"Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye,

And where care lodges, sleep will never lie.”

So, why is this piece labeled unplugged?  I made a great discovery just when all seemed to have reached a crescendo.  I left my laptop outside the bedroom and sleep like a child once more.  I thought it was a fluke but have so far found myself returning to pre-sixty levels of blissful sleep.  It may not last and I hesitate to pronounce victory so soon.  After all, sleep is not just one battle it is more like a war!  But,  in case you too, like me are addicted to 'input' of all sorts and find yourself sleep-deprived I share my tip.  Do yourself a favour and check your browsing history and ask yourself honestly how much of it is adding to the quality of your life.  If you have tips of your own to share with me on these topics please do share.  I am anxious to learn a better path forward.  May I end by wishing you the very best of night's sleep!

 

Gasses gather inside you as if your own personal air balloon is being inflated

This plane is far too full. Given the many precautions of the airport with careful separation of passengers by means of floor signs, sealed off areas, seats taped over to enforce distancing and even the queueing policy and masks mandatory there was a sense of these people know how to make this Covid-safe space. But even in the airport, despite all appearances, there were obvious flaws. Every single hand cleansing dispenser was empty. I knew because I’m paranoid enough to insist on using them all. That should’ve given me a heads up that all was not what it seemed. However, it was only when I entered the departure lounge that everything went really pear-shaped. My gate was absolutely packed with the queue snaking right around the entire hall. People were trying to keep a safe distance but the room was just not big enough. 

Then, we were jammed into the airport buses, on route to the plane, like sardines. Gone was any pretence of social distancing. We were packed far too tightly to permit even a bulky handbag to separate us. I consoled myself with the thought that the plane would be better. After all, the last time I flew on this route, in Covid times, there were only 16 people on the whole plane. I actually managed to stretch out and sleep across three vacant seats for the first time in years. Not this time! The plane rapidly filled to the brim. Obviously, being a Christmas flight, many were returning to Dublin for the festive period. I initially thought I would be the only fortunate person on the plane to have vacant seats on either side of me. Unfortunately, once the door of the plane closed there was a rapid reshuffling and a man took one of the empty seats in my row. I briefly contemplated the social etiquette of pointing out he should sit in the seat indicated by his ticket. However, since there was by now a massive reseating going on all over the plane I decided making a fuss was not in order. At least I didn’t have the chap two rows ahead beside me. He was wearing a mask so small it did not cover his mouth or nose, more of a chin strap. Who does he think he is fooling? Never mind I put my head back and try to relax. The stewards came around to take the food order and I politely declined. I have purchased an expensive FFP3 mask for this flight and I’m not risking removing it to either drink or eat. But darn it the people all around me are suddenly removing their masks so they can stuff their faces. Perhaps I should just relax after all I have had Covid already in May. 

On that last trip, I had flown to Ireland from Malta and brought a packed lunch to eat on the plane during the journey. After the flight, I got onto the bus for the long journey to Belfast. On that particular last leg of the journey, I did not feel at all well. In fact, by the time it arrived in Belfast, outside the Europa hotel, I barely managed to stagger off the bus before vomiting on the pavement. This startled me as I rarely ever vomit. As I’ve mentioned before, even in the face of food poisoning (a dodgy Chinese family meal) all vomited but my dad and I.  Then, when sailing with friends in rough weather, who were vomiting in unison either side of me, I managed to still enjoy my Mars bar. So, it was weird for me to feel so bad. I recovered once I had emptied my stomach. But within two weeks my mum and I both had Covid. Did I catch it on the plane? Somehow two weeks seems too long. Who knows, it could have been from a supermarket trip, getting petrol for the car, a neighbour who came too close to talk.   I’ll never know but Covid was horrid. I had a mild but nasty period but my poor 87-year-old mum was eventually hospitalised and had to have oxygen. Thankfully she fought her way back to health despite her age, damaged lungs and asthma and came home safely. Mind you, both of us are convinced our brains are just not the same. 

So, the reason I’m a bit paranoid on this plane is because I’m heading once again to be with my mum and I’m frankly terrified I’ll pick up the virus on route. The science is rather vague about how long antibodies and T cells remain in your system after you’ve been exposed to the virus and recovered. A few months was mentioned initially but then it seemed to depend on the severity of the original infection. Those who with the milder symptoms seem to lose their immunity faster. Then, there’s also vagueness about whether you yourself could be immune but still carry the virus to others. Just the possibility of that has generated a longing for 2m between me and all my neighbours on this flight. The younger generation seems much more relaxed about this disease. The young man behind me is chatting up a pretty girl in the seat beside him. They have that excited nervous first conversation, not exactly flirty, but each wanting to put their best foot forward. I’m wishing they would talk less as they’re too close to me. 

There are only two elderly people on this flight and I can tell they are panicking. Both wear a visor and a mask to protect themselves, a smart move I should have thought of. When the old man had entered the plane he had started a heated argument with a young man with a crewcut seated in 1A. The elderly man was sure this upstart was sitting in his seat and argued loudly while hitting his boarding pass with a red pointed finger. The air steward intervened as the young man searched for his boarding pass on his phone. It took time for the truth to emerge as the elderly man behind his mask and visor couldn’t hear the steward very well. It turned out his boarding ticket was in row three not row one and he and his grey-haired wife were eventually persuaded to move on down the plane to their real seats. In the middle of the confusion, his wife took a severe cramp in her calf and had to stop and rub it while groaning in pain. I have real sympathy with this getting older. Along with more pain, it makes mistakes more likely. There really should be compassion for the elderly. Remembering to wear masks is tricky once you get past a certain age. You can easily forget. 

In Malta, masks are mandatory everywhere outdoors and I have managed to get a block from home before remembering to pull a mask from my bag. Why is it so tricky? It’s because it’s foreign. The younger generation can adapt to change but older people have their life long habits engraved in brains of cement.  When you periodically lose your train of thought, can’t find that word and miss place inanimate objects with depressing regularity then obeying brand new regulations is really tough. There is a video of a pensioner online, entering a supermarket and mistaking a drink dispenser for an alcoholic hand spray and pouring the brightly coloured sugar drink over both palms and then rubbing in the sticky stuff earnestly. One’s heart leaps in real sympathy. When they hand out fines for not wearing a mask I think old age should be a valid excuse! 

Travelling had already become harder, even before Covid hit and was becoming very tiring. The distance covered by travellers in the airport has become longer, time standing in queues in steep stairways adds to the torture. The steps on a Ryanair aircraft are rickety and narrow with steps that are smaller than normal-sized feet. You end up coming down the steps on your heels with most of your foot projecting out mid-air. The whole structure moves like a rickety ladder and there’s no room to carry a suitcase by your side. Instead, you have to hold it in front of you pulling you forward dangerously over your toes. The fact that these ladders fold into the plane has to be convenient for the airlines but it’s a real liability for the elderly/pregnant/parent with small children. 

Another couple in front of me is also courting across the aisle. I suspect young people are desperate to socialise. Planes are replacing nightclubs, pubs and other social venues. We older ones avoid such unnecessary exposure to germs.  The young are excited to have these hours to get to know someone new at last. I cannot blame them. After all, they are young and feel invincible. Their immune systems are humming along nicely. Fighting off infections like crack troops. Ours are a withered bunch who have been whittled away by chronic conditions. Our systems often already need medication to keep our troops in line and in order.  These elderly troops seem less vigilant and effective.  I can remember getting deep cuts in my knees, when younger, and they healed so quickly. Healed and left no scars. Now marks remain for years and can even grow to form deep creases. Opportunistic growths appear in unlikely places and these old bodies view these invaders as bedfellows that just have to be endured. Decisions are sometimes made to rip such opportunistic growths off a shoulder or back but need to be weighed with the scar that will be left. Deciding to go for the scar or just ignore this new tenant have to be thought through.  In fact, with time you are a bit embarrassed by your battlefield body.  Once a nurse was worried by a huge bleeding sore on my forearm when I had decided this particular growth had outgrown my tolerance for it.  On my next visit to a health clinic, a different nurse was horrified by the size of an unsightly growth on my wrist.  As I made my way home I was trying to work out which had caused more distress in medical staff.  To rip off or leave alone, difficult to decide?

The other change that age brings is that you are more sensitive to stress.  You’d think with experience you’d be able to weather difficulties better.  But the truth is with age you long for peace and quiet and toxic atmospheres corrode your wellbeing.  Unexpected stress freaks you out.  As do last-minute changes or having to rush because you are late.  Responsibilities weigh more heavily.  You sweat over grandchildren.  Worry about their safety, fear you will fail them through inattention or carelessness.  Knowing how tricky inanimate objects have become, like jar lids that won't open, you are freaked out by these active strong-willed characters.  Their minds are like quicksilver and you feel like a heavy-footed cart horse.  These bones don’t move so fast anymore and these old brains don’t process thoughts so well.  There are benefits. Strangely emotions grow stronger with age.  A beautiful landscape can move us to tears.  As can a child’s smile or a sweet memory of an old friend.

Sleep changes. When you are young you can do without sleep all night. Function pretty well all the next day before collapsing the next night. When you are old, sleep becomes something you keep track off like a bank balance. Every morning you will enquire of everyone you live with if they slept well. It is a subject of interest to you as sleeping has become a hit or miss affair. No more total collapse into a blissful full night’s sleep. Instead, bladder trips pepper the night and often sleep does not follow these outings. Then the night shift of bedroom roof inspection begins.  Tired of the horrible thoughts that bubble up in a sleep-deprived mind I generally get up and have breakfast at 3 am. With a full belly sometimes sleep comes as an unexpected desert. With such varied experiences at night no wonder the elderly have daily conversations about sleep. And that doesn’t even cover the dreams. In old age, you can find yourself back in stress-inducing situations that years ago you might have faced. But now, at this stage in life, the stress is hyper experienced and unbearable.  You wake up traumatised by an experience you manage to wade through with difficulty in your prime but is now played in your dream as an awful sequel. When an older person asks you with genuine concern ‘Did you sleep well?” Know in what context they ask.  They know what a bad night feels like, the emotions that rip open wounded hearts. So, out of love, they want to be reassured that your sleep was sound and blissful. It pleases them to know someone is getting a good night’s sleep.

My romantic neighbours behind me are on their second meal of this flight. They consume vast quantities of drink that we older travellers would never challenge our bladders with. These young people after hours of flight look remarkably fresh. It reminds me of two friends of mine who went into the local maternity ward at the same time and gave birth on the same day. Amused by the synchronicity of this event, photos were taken of the two friends with their new babies on the ward. The young mother in her 20’s looked like a model in her nightgown with a freshly flushed complexion glowing with happiness. My 43-year-old older friend held her baby like an anchor that was too heavy to hold and looked like she had been through 20 rounds of a vicious heavyweight boxing match.  Even her hair seemed freaked out. The contrast between the two mothers in the photograph had us all roaring in laughter and sympathy. As I look around this plane I can see a similar phenomenon.  The young look exactly as they did when they entered this plane. We oldies look like we’ve been dragged through bushes backwards for several nights. Eyelids are closing independently of their owners and mouths seem to be pulled by gravity into grimaces that speak of back pain that has reached intolerable proportions. Old bones shift uncomfortably and long to be flat on orthopaedic mattresses. Cramps come and go in unlikely places and vague indigestion has begun to brew. Gasses gather inside you as if your own personal air balloon is being inflated.  The noisy happy flirtatious chat of excited young people has become like dentist drills in our heads. We admire their energy and commitment but long for our own oblivion in a deep sleep. Our bank balances are running extremely low and being polite to others takes incredible effort. Excited chitchat from youngsters is like fingernails on the blackboard. 

But we must endure.  That’s what age teaches you. Patience with yourself and others, the flaws, the worries and the pains. It’s a hard-won quality and it makes you wish for all onboard this plane a safe journey and a good night sleep at the end of it. Because isn’t that what we all long for at the end of these lives of ours.

Michael Abateo - drugs, buses and buckets with holes

The days passed and Michael Abateo felt the futility of each day without Maria slipping through his fingers. He had learned to hide his feelings from those around him. It wasn’t much progress but he told himself at least he wasn’t burdening his family and friends. On the surface, he functioned as everyone else. Only he knew of the nightly despair when he lay in bed staring at his ceiling feeling like life was a game he really no longer had the stomach for. Because of the long endless nights, he’d taken to having a long afternoon nap. His neighbour JT teased him over this habit. Michael had found after months of not sleeping he had begun to dread nightfall but perversely the afternoon nap called out to his soul.

He did not want to wake up from his nap and when people phoned him during this precious period he resented it deeply. His doctor had offered him sleeping tablets but Michael had bad memories of his mother using such tablets. He felt it had given her a good night’s sleep at the expense of mental clarity. She would mix up people’s names, forget what had happened, lose her handbag and even her way home. It might not have been linked to his mother’s lifetime habit of two paracodol Tablets every night but Michael had been flabbergasted to discover how many of his own contemporaries were also heavily medicated.

His collapse after his wife’s death had triggered a painful honesty from both friends and neighbours. And he reckoned most people created a façade to hide the pains they endure. This veneer of normality was sustained at all costs. Michael had begun to think of it as a shell. Most people were like snails with a hard exterior shell and a soft centre.  Grief had somehow turned Michael into an exposed slug with no shell of protection at all.  Everyone noticed his vulnerable state. Suddenly, others opened up to him about their own depression, the Valium, their sleeping tablets, their unfaithful spouses, chronic illnesses and the people who had stolen their inheritance. This last point about wills and inheritance had been so toxic in nature Michael had even found himself watchful of his own children for a while. Then he realised that in their case he had to control them vigilantly to ensure he paid his own bills because they were both so anxious to support him financially. An independent person all his life he was not about to except handouts from his own children! Another side of him, however, was so relieved that they seem completely devoid of any desire of property or belongings. There seemed to be an epidemic of materialism and he was delighted to discover his son and daughter both seemed immune. Of course, his wife had probably ingrained that habit in them. They often joked that she could give away her own coat in a storm. She was generous by nature and always thinking of others, visiting hospital patients, picking up groceries for elderly neighbours. The children soaked up her kindliness as their birthright and Michael loved to see how clearly, they reflected her habits even today.

He and his wife had repeatedly disagreed on only one thing during their long marriage and that was politics. They both supported opposing parties and would have long intricate debates were each would try to convince the other of the truth of their side. Neither would give up. Michael sometimes felt that these intense discussions with his wife helped to improve his arguments when sitting chatting in the café with his friends. Having been exposed to her arguments and points he was ready and armed to counter similar arguments from others. Although they disagreed on politics they had enjoyed the many heated discussions. Michael was proud that she had a good brain and could make rational pertinent points in a debate. He needed to keep himself on his toes to even meet her halfway.  But since she had gone he had no stomach for politics of any sort.  In fact, his son and daughter had been arguing about some political happenings at his table on a Sunday when Michael had silently lowered his forehead to the table and wept.  Michael felt his tears were a slug trail he left in his wake over which he had no control. They had been devastated by his sudden grief and he could not explain, for the life of him, why all things political suddenly made him want to weep as if his heart was broken.

There were other changes he’d noticed.  Fiestas to him had become noisy firework events that left streets full of tiny pieces of paper impossible to clean away. Since he had been cleaning the house in Valetta he hated the endless slips of paper which blew behind gates, got into drains and even under doors. The endless fireworks, which in his youth had excited him, now caused sudden chest pains that he struggled to hide from his family. Their unexpected bangs made Michael put his hand over his chest to still his fluttering, panicked heart. 

His father had been a hunter but now Michael could not understand those who blasted the birds from the sky. He did not share their enthusiasm for killing or their love of guns. His father had come through World War II and had seen what guns could do. He had often taken Michael to the military graves above Pembroke and read out the names and ages of those youngsters who had paid with their lives. Once he’d found the name Archer, 24 years old on a grave and it mentioned that he was an only child.  His father had pointed out that instead of that family having their only son marry and have family and then grandchildren all those dreams and hopes had died with Archer’s death.  “Can you imagine? He’d asked Michael, “Can you feel the loss, the pain?  “A whole family line ended here in this grave!” “That’s all that’s left.” His father’s voice had filled with emotion at all those lost lives stolen by a war.  Only now, a grandfather himself did Michael understand some of his father’s emotions.  Before they left the graves, his father would always bow his head in respect in silence making Michael do the same. Guns were not just for hunting, his father had said, they also took human lives. His father had lectured frequently him on how to clean the barrels of guns, put on the safety catch and on the savageness of war.  The birds his father shot were always eaten and never wasted. It used to be Michael’s job to clean the birds and he had complained long and hard that was too much work for too little meat. His father didn’t like people keeping birds in cages either. He told Michael that humans couldn’t fly so they imprisoned those who could out of sheer jealousy.

Michael liked to go to the hardware shop. The proprietor Joe was a sharp-tongued character who showed Michael absolutely no sympathy. For some strange reason, it made Michael feel more normal. Joe’s attitude was if you have a pipe to cut, join or seal etc he'd sell you something but if you want to chat, get sympathy or gossip you were “In the wrong shop!” This phrase was frequently shouted at customers. The entrance to the shop was a tiny corridor almost blocked by ladders, fans, ropes and gadgets. There was usually a queue because although Joe had no people skills he was an excellent handyman and could usually fix anything. That morning Joe had waited in line mop bucket in hand. When his turn came Joe had put a bucket on the counter and said,

 "There’s a hole in my bucket!”

Joe scratched the back of his head and examined the bucket, and pointed out,

 “You’re not lucky with buckets, are you?  The last one you brought in, the wheels broke off, didn’t they?

Michael nodded and explained,

“I don’t know why they keep buying me these fancy new buckets with wheels or holes for my mop. What happened to just plain old normal mop buckets?

Joe groaned,

“I remember you kept complaining the last time that the wheelie mop bucket kept tipping over. Now you’re missing the lid that should cover this hole here at the bottom.”

He looked at Michael and accused him,

“It would’ve been in the box it came in. You probably threw it away by accident, didn’t you?”

Michael admitted, “I might have, by accident”.

Joe examined the bucket and then took a swig of a small bottle of orange soda on his counter.  Michael asked,

“Do you have a stopper, cork or something that would fit the hole?”

Joe snorted angrily,

“No!”

 And then he carefully screwed the lid of his orange bottle over the hole. It was a tight fit but it snuggly covered the tiny exit. One more twist and the job was done.

Joe, held out the mop bucket to Michael and said,

“Go and sin no more!”

Michael asked tentatively,

“How much do I owe you?”

Joe, glared into Michael’s eyes and said,

“200 euros! It is a unique custom-made fixture, the only one in the shop”.  Then to Michael’s surprise Joe had started singing that old rhythm,

“There’s a hole in my bucket dear Lisa, dear Lisa”. 

Michael stood unsure and Joe shouted,

“Go on, I’ve better things to do than waste time on you and your buckets.  I won’t charge you a cent if you get out now!”

Michael left and the man’s annoying brusque temperament perversely felt like a breath of fresh air.

Michael used buses now. He’d found his coordination had begun to fail when driving. It was hard to let the car go but harder still to be driving long past the point of safety. When he looked at his grandchildren and their young friends he knew he'd made the right decision. They were far too precious to risk on roads with him behind the wheel. Buses were his main means of transport and he liked the company and the noise. People always gave him a seat for which he was deeply grateful. Being old has some advantages! He needed a seat because of the jerky driving of bus drivers as they raced, swerved and stood on brakes unexpectedly. He had been on one journey where the tourists were packed in like sardines and someone was obviously leaning on a buzzer (the stop button) by accident. But, the bus driver, Hugh was sure someone was deliberately “fucking with me” as he put it. He shouted abuse over his shoulder at the busload of puzzled and surprised tourists.  He cursed the rest of the way to San Gwan in Maltese and Michael sighed because he understood him all too well.  The bus driver’s father was a regular at Michael’s café in the village.  The old father had told Michael in private about his grandson’s drug addiction and the heartache it had brought everyone especially Hugh. Michael knew that the driver’s anger was not really directed at tourists but at those who made money out of his son’s addiction.  The boy regularly stole from family members had drifted into petty theft and then drug dealing. This had resulted in him being in and out of prison or rehab. Others had urged Hugh to cut off his son and free himself of the constant heartache and expense.  But as Hugh had told a relative, “I feel my son is in a deep dark well and there is only a long thin thread from him to me. Everyone is urging me to cut this last link but I cling to this thread. I cannot get him out of this hellhole but I will hold onto this thread of love. ”

As Michael exited the bus he told Hugh to give his greetings to his father and smiled at him.  Instantly Hugh’s scowl had lifted and he smiled back at Michael recognizing him. He told Michael,

“Call and see us, will you?  The house is too quiet these days!”

“I will,” said Michael, “and tell Evelien she is still the most beautiful girl in the south of the island!”

Hugh laughed and queried,

“Not the most beautiful in Malta?”

“No”, Michael responded with a chuckle, “that would be my Maria.”

It felt good to say his wife’s name again with laughter and pride.

Hugh nodded and agreed,

“Inside and out Michael, she was beautiful!”

-->

Michael walked out the door and waved over his shoulder at Hugh.  He would remember this moment it felt like the first genuine feeling of happiness he had felt since losing Maria. 


The two links below give older stories about Michael Abateo

part one - Maria and Michael Abateo forty winks

part two - Michael Abateo deals with dirt and life

These old bones and tendons do not bend and stretch

I’m in Gatwick about to fly home to Malta after three weeks of being a granny to active grandsons in the UK. They filled every morning with hugs and smiles at my bedside. They ran with an abundance of energy that no 60-year-old could match.

At first, my plan was to exhaust all their energy by huge walks along the coast near Folkestone. Very quickly, I learned that however far we covered the boys once fed were good to go again almost immediately. Huge adventure playgrounds, I discovered, are heart-attack places for grannies. Your child, a toddler disappears into a labyrinth high above you jostled by millions of older children. 

You cannot follow. These old bones and tendons do not bend and stretch. The elder one returns in one piece but the smaller is crying in pain somewhere in this madhouse of children, parents, psychos with ladders and drops everywhere. I follow his distinct loud cry and find him roaring at the bottom of huge metallic snake-like slide. He holds out his arms to me for comfort and we sit hugging both his pain and my absolute mind-numbing fear of having lost my grandchild away. I decide playgrounds are not safe places. It seems that one in every ten children there is roaring because they’ve fallen, been pushed, have cut their knees or banged their head or are totally lost. I determined to exit this dreadful place with two under-fives and say never again. If I had to go through this once more I’d be in heart-attack country.

Instead, I learned to be wily and conserve my energy while using theirs. I would go to the huge green park behind their house and in encourage them to roll balls down steep hills. That way they would race down, again and again, staggering up steep slopes while I sat at the top conserving my limited reserves of energy.

When with small children you find yourself smiling a lot. They ask questions that take your breath away about dying, life, sweets, bullying and then off they go at top speed. I want to summon up the very best of me to meet this challenge. To banish meanness or deflection. To answer and engage honestly. But as energy levels bottom, the challenges become harder.

I fight the weariness and try to hold tight to good humour. They deserve to be safe and nurtured. It should be the very least I achieve. But being older at least give you experience and a certain kind of knowledge of what works for you and what doesn’t. What counts against you is the terrifying responsibility. The need for constant vigilance, watching where they are and what they do. Being older one sees potential dangers on all sides. A moment of absentmindedness or distraction, this must be fought at all costs. But this war of attrition wears you down. I watch their parents carry this load lightly. Wrestling, throwing them around wasting valuable energy. Putting on music and dancing with the children, exuberant with their love and time. I marshal energy resources as if it was my last breath. Determined to make it last until little heads are fast asleep, safe in bed with pyjamas and all snug. Then the edifice collapses I fold into bed as if clubbed. Desperate that my battery is recharged. A miracle of rejuvenation is necessary!  It comes early when just after 6 AM two little angels come to my bedside again. Then, drawing deep from hugs and kisses, granny emerges from her cocoon to fly for love again.

“Love is the cause of God’s revelation unto man, the vital bond inherent, in accordance with the divine creation, in the realities of things.  Love is the one means that ensureth true felicity both in this world and the next.  Love is the light that guideth in darkness, the living link that uniteth God with man, that assureth the progress of every illumined soul.”

Baha’is Writings